


Live by the Sword

by Doug48



Series: As You Sow, You Will Also Reap [2]
Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Military, Gen, alternate universe - TAME collars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22381174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doug48/pseuds/Doug48
Summary: The mainly prey mammals of Zystopia had not been expecting war. Certainly not now, after five years of peace. But, war was coming, so they had no choice other than to send their mostly predator army to meet the approaching armies of the Carnivore Confederation.
Series: As You Sow, You Will Also Reap [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1611049
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	1. The First Day

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the overall work, and some of the scenes take place during the same general time period. In this case, those scenes start on Z Day and continue from there in a linear fashion.

“What’s going on?” Hopper asked.

“No clue, sir,” Delrio responded. “Could be a drill, could be something else. It looks like something else. Drills have all been with warning. Not so much warning this time.” Both mammals were running together toward their tanks.

“Wonderful,” Hopper replied. As a young leftenant, his duty was to get his unit ready to move. For that matter, his duty was to assume command of the armored company until relieved by higher authority; Captain Bodo was the company commander, but he wasn’t here. Hopper was, but, he was the newest officer, out of five, in the company. 

The base was on full alert and predator soldiers of the Army of Zystopia were running all over the place. It was either late Friday night, or very early Saturday morning, and if this was an attack, it was clearly planned to take full advantage of the night. The troops were mostly drunk tonight, and the officers were mostly exhausted. Monday through Friday was for field problems and then various administrative duties for the officers after that. The soldiers, of course, started drinking as soon as they were back from the field.

“Reds one through four report ready,” Sergeant Delrio said over the tactical net 30 minutes later. All four tanks were ready to go. This was a forward battalion, so maintenance was conducted by well motivated and trained prey mammals, not the predators who operated the vehicles. These predators were not collared, but they were not fully trusted either. 

“Roger,” Hopps responded, then switched to the company frequency. “Red is nominal, over,” he said into the radio. Then he waited. And waited.

“I say again, Red is nominal, over.”

‘Why isn’t Bodo, or a member of his crew, responding?’ Hopper looked at his gunner, a predator named Morgan. “Corporal, switch your headset to the platoon net. Listen. I need to assume company command.”

“Affirmative, sir,” Morgan was a coyote and sounded eager. Not afraid. 

Hopper was a leporidae, rabbit, unlike Morgan and Delrio, so Hopper could not smell the others' pheromones. That wasn’t really a problem right now. Hopper was justifiably proud of his mammals and their level of training.

“This is Red Six. I am assuming command of Gator Company. All Gator elements, report in,” Hopper said into the radio because someone had to be in actual command at all times. Taking over the job of a superior officer was a punishable offense unless Gator Six, Captain Bodo, was unavailable. Now was the time for Bodo to use his radio and let everyone know he was in command. He didn't. 

“Blue is nominal,” second platoon reported. And then first platoon, “Green is nominal.”

“White,” Hopper spoke into the radio, “report status.”

There was no response.

This was not a huge problem, but it was very annoying. “Morgan. Get Delrio on the platoon net because he's closer. Find out what the flock is wrong with third platoon.”

G, or Gator, was composed of four, color coded, platoons of four tanks each. There were two more tanks in headquarters section, but these would attach to first platoon if Captain Bodo was unavailable. Had they not attached, Green platoon would have been ‘two’ or ‘missing the two tanks from headquarters’ instead of ‘nominal’ or ‘all tanks report ready to move.’

The tanks were all in the motor pool area, which was uphill from the barracks, and all tanks were in view of at least a few others. Hopper knew good old sergeant Delrio would either visually check on Third, or possibly, send one of his mammals on foot the 15 meters to check in person.

While Hopper waited, he stood up in his tank, on his chair, and looked around. Eighteen tanks were up and running. He could see the engine exhaust on the thermal visual blocks if he wanted to drop back down into his command seat, but he didn’t need to. He could see, and more importantly to a lepo, he could hear eighteen engines. Each one distinct after months of training.

The tanks, as always, looked big and impressive under the motorpool lights. They were 60 tons each, armed with five guns. One 105 mm main gun, two secondary 20 mm weapons, and two machine guns, all mounted in the fully rotating turret on top of the vehicle. The officers had the firing pins, so all weapons would now be ‘live’ if they had ammunition. Except for white platoon of course. The ammunition was stored in special bunkers a mile away and everyone would be expected to be on the way there only minutes from now. When the Battalion commander called, Gator company would move out, with or without Gator Six.

Hopper was relieved to hear Morgan's voice before hearing the radio again.

“Dell says Leftenant Jones is missing in action. Nobody knew what to do, so Dell said they should just follow us.”

“Good idea. Excellent,” Hopper said, not worried about the sort of regulations this would break. Not moving those four tanks was worse than moving them without their prey officer. Jones, or Bodo, or someone from Battalion staff, would surely be available to lead them while they drew their ammo.

“Gator. Move out. Follow your guide to tango,” Hopper heard on the radio. Battalion was telling them to go get loaded up, and Hopper could now see the guide vehicle, a multipurpose wheeled unit, waiting outside the motor pool.

“Blue, green, and white. Follow me,” Hopper ordered on the company net. He signaled to his own Red platoon tanks with a hand motion. 

Then he told his driver to “move out. Follow that wheeler.” When he looked back, he saw the other tanks of the company were all in line behind him, and he felt a surge of pride. 

Gator was lead company in Third Battalion of the Seventh Cavalry Regiment, which made its home here on this base, which was located in a small town near the border with one of the Confederacy city states. The other two battalions would also be road marching to the ammunition storage area either before or behind Third Battalion, depending on when they had been, or would be, ready to go.

The soldiers normally relaxed in the town, and many of them had been in one of the bars there only a few hours before. Wives and/or husbands lived in the nearby off post housing. Hopper considered himself to be too young to be married, but he knew many of his mammals had spouses in that housing. If this was a real emergency, and it was looking more and more like it, then they would be very worried. Hopper knew the family members would be evacuated, of course.

Hopper keyed the radio on the company frequency. “Remember what we’re fighting for. This might be the real thing.” He thought about what he was fighting for: his family. Then he looked for, and saw, the approval hand signal from Delrio’s tank nine vehicles back.

The road march to the ammo bunker was uneventful, but Hopper was becoming more concerned about Bodo. ‘Where was the mammal?’ He thought, again. 

“Blue, green, and white sixes, assemble here,” Hopper said into his radio. ‘All Gator company leftenants assemble at my tank’, in other words. They had stopped and now waited in line behind another company from another battalion that was drawing hot rounds, not the blue practice ammo. The hot, or live, rounds were color coded for type: armor piercing, high explosive, cannister, and incendiary. 

The most likely enemy, indeed the only enemy nearby, were the war machines, ‘mechs’, of the Carnivore Confederation. They used mostly small, fast machines, so guns would need mainly explosive or grape shots. The black ones would punch a four inch hole into, and then out of, most of the Confederation combat machines, and might not actually do enough damage to kill them. Unless the shot passed through stored ammunition or a crewmember, of course. 

Hopper thought about those mechs as he waited for the other leftenants and, possibly, Bodo. The MBT 70s of the Zystopian Army were not fast, but they are well armored and armed. The general idea, tactically, was a kind of spray and pray idea at short range, and try to make as many kills at long-range as possible. The machine guns were for the infantry, and the 20 mm were for short range. He hoped not to need the twenties. Actually, he hoped for no fighting at all.

The blue, green, and white leftenants arrived, surprising Hopper. Jones had apparently jumped up on his tank when it slowed to come around a corner back at base camp. At least he didn’t have to run here.

“Glad you could make it,” Hopper said, grinning at Jones. Hopper showed his teeth as usual, but the other leftenants were used to it. They were also used his habit of command, and so they made no argument about his leadership of Gator company. Everyone expected Bodo to arrive any moment now, anyway.

“Where is the mammal?” Green asked, mimicking Hopper’s own thoughts.

Nobody knew, so they discussed the next elephant in the room.

“What the hell is going on? The last thing I heard, the chance of war with the Confederation was basically zero. Their army is smaller than any time in the last twenty years, according to all the recent briefings. Unless we’re not fighting them?” One of the leftenants asked. 

“It’s the Confederation. Notice how we’re drawing ammo? The Confederation is close, and so we don’t need to board trains. If you are going to travel, then you don’t drawn ammunition,” Hopper pointed out.

The company in front of Gator was nearly done, and Bodo still had not arrived, so the leftenants went back to their tanks and Hopper continued to run the company. This mostly consisted of keeping Battalion informed, and that was easy. He just touched the appropriate icon in his own command tank and the data went to Battalion automatically. Sometimes he wished he had an actual armored command vehicle because there would be more room for larger map displays, but mostly he preferred to be in his own fighting vehicle. Gator did have communications and maintenance vehicles, but they were back in the rear out of the way at the moment. They had no need for the kind of ammunition available here.

An hour later, Gator had finished drawing ammo and been assigned a laager, or parking, area near Second Battalion. Third Battalion had ordered all three of its companies, G, H, and I, to park and shut down the main engines to conserve fuel. They always parked in the motor pull overnight with full gas tanks, but never with ammunition or firing pins. The guns were now ready to use, but no gun would have a round in the chamber. Accidentally shooting one of the 105’s here in this crowded parking lot would be an excellent way to get a great many friendly mammals killed. ‘That was the point of the weapons, of course, but we’re not supposed to be killing our own mammals,’ Hopper thought.

Sound came from one of Hopper’s radios again. These were run on an auxiliary power from a small generator, and not the main turbine engine. “All sixes. Report to big sky. Immediately.”

“Morgan, you have the tank,” Hopper said, and grabbed his gear for the walk to Battalion command. He signaled Green Six on the way, and got an acknowledgement wave. “Where the hell is Bodo?” Hopper muttered for the sixth or seven time.

He saw the Battalion command vehicles, and two company commanders, or 'sixes', already there, outside. These were the commanding officers of H & I companies, and they didn’t like Hopper very much. This was a war maneuver, so Hopper didn’t salute. H and I were buffaloes, like Bodo, and the battalion CO. Buffalo were far larger than rabbits like Hopper and these pretended to ignore him most of the time. He was used to that, having seen it several times when he had had to interact with them. Most of time, Bodo had done that interacting.

‘And I can’t let them bully me this time, or not as much. Bodo is not here to see that Gator gets its fair share of supplies and information, so I have to do it,’ Hopper thought, and followed the last buffalo into the vehicle. The company commanders were 03, with double bars on their uniforms, and they outranked his own O2, single bar. The Battalion CO was an O5, with a single silver cluster. Regiment, of course, had an eagle, and he was O6.

“Leftenant Hopper reports,” Hopper said after the H and I company commanders had reported in. They were inside a vehicle, but the other two had saluted, so Hopper did as well, even though regulations normally forbid such things. He put his right paw into his left breast, and put his muzzle slightly up.

“Just what the hell was that?” The Battalion CO asked.

“Sir? I don’t understand,” Hopper replied. 

“That head back thing. Don’t do that,” the head buffalo replied.

Hopper realized his mistake. Nearly all the predator mammals in his platoon, and the company for that matter, saluted him that way, so he has fallen into the routine and forgotten that other officers preferred the level muzzle salute. He did not apologize, of course. Soldiers never do. The Battalion CO waved him back and started talking.

“Right. Bodo is unavailable, so I guess Hopper here,” and now the CO did roll one of his eyes, “is in command of Gator. I can’t spare an officer from my own staff and Regiment doesn’t care who leads the company as long as the Battalion, which is me, does its job. Your orders are to do what I tell you, when I tell you. You understand that?” 

“Sir, yes sir!” The company commanders said in unison. It’s what Bodo would’ve done, so Hopper did the same, but he was worried.

‘Why can’t the colonel spare an officer? Headquarters section has at least two spares. Unless they’ve already been taken by Regiment?’ His train of thought was broken by the CO.

“You may return your company, rabbit. You’ll be told if we need some warm bodies for some extra duty or other. When they move out, stay behind H and I companies. Dismissed.”

“Sir?” Surprise startled Hopper into replying. “Gator is the lead company-“

“And you’re the junior company commander. Anything else you want advice on? Do you need me to hold your hand when you piss?”

“No sir,” Hopper saluted again and left after a wave from the CO. The other two company commanders stayed, but they were buffaloes like the colonel. Hopper made his way back to Gator company looking and feeling defeated.

There he met Delrio, who waved with his now usual greeting. “Having fun talking to the big guns?” He asked.

“What do you think, sergeant?”

“You look like it didn’t go well, so yeah, that’s what happened.”

“Bodo is out. They didn’t say why. Next time we move, we’re playing rearguard,” Hopper didn’t say why, but Delrio knew. The colonel liked Bodo and promoted him to be a company CO. The colonel didn’t like rabbits, and so only tolerated Hopper, and would certainly punish him in every petty way possible, including rearguard duty, despite their location in the parking lot and the way Gator was the first one ready to move earlier tonight.

“About that. I heard Bodo got himself hurt skiing. Or anyway, that’s what he says. Actually, he heard what we’re doing and then he managed to find that his injuries were too serious to be able to return to duty,” Delrio said.

Hopper thought, but it did not say, ‘some mammals are more, or less, brave than others.’ Criticizing one’s superiors was another of those things the proper mammal could never do, so Hopper didn’t do it. Delrio heard the thought anyway.

The road march to the border was short and uneventful. They refueled just after dawn when they arrived in their assigned location, and Hopper had his mammals doing preventative maintenance as soon as possible because he wasn’t sure when actual fighting would begin. The other three leftenants showed no interest in discussing, or questioning, his orders, and Battalion had only told him to have his tanks occupy the forward fighting positions. 

Hopper was called to a Battalion conference in person again later that morning, and again given minimal information and dismissed.

He called the other leftenants, and the track commanders of the maintenance and supply vehicles, together at his tank. “We’re at war, gentle mammals. Our dependents have been moved out of the forward base and back to Zystopia. All ambassadors have been recalled, or expelled, as appropriate. Civilian air traffic in this area is canceled, so anything you see flying is going to be either our war birds or the air craft of the Confederation. Don't shoot unless you know it's an unfriendly! We’ve got the border there, to the East,” he said, pointing in the same direction the tank guns were pointed. Then he pointed again and again. “First and Second Battalions are to the south. North of us we have an infantry division, the Fourth ID.”

“Questions?” He asked them. The leftenants said nothing, but Delrio made a hand motion.

“Sergeant?” Hopper invited.

“Sir, why are we on the line? Or why all three companies? Tanks are more mobile than infantry. Let the infantry hold the line and we can rush to plug holes by counter attacking.”

‘Good question,’ Hopper thought. 'Probably has something to do with the surprise nature of this assault.' Aloud, he said, “I don’t know. Battalion gave no explanations, but if I had to guess, I would say that we'll be replaced by infantry eventually.” 

The leftenants left, and Delrio stayed. He and Hopper discussed the situation at great length, and then the otter returned to his own tank. The rabbit checked on the mammals and tanks of his company, and found them in relatively high spirits. He hoped the rest of this Zystopian army felt the same way, but he knew that was unlikely. Bodo had not been popular, so the mammals were relieved, not worried, by his absence. Hopper also knew the predators trusted him, Hopper, more than they trusted Bodo anyway, so that had an additional positive effect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this AU, there are half a dozen large cities, like Zystopia, and each of those has several "satellite" towns nearby. Zystopia, for example, has Bunnyborough as a satellite, and there are other towns, in other directions.
> 
> CO is "commanding officer". In Zystopia, colonels command battalions, captains command companies, and leftenants command platoons. Four tanks make up an armored platoon, four platoons make a company, three companies make a battalion, and three battalions make up a regiment. Centurian Wolfson, who you'll meet later, commands a "century" which is a Confederation company sized military unit, and Wolfson has several optios [leftenants] under him.


	2. First Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a few days later, and the beginning of the end of the Army of Zystopia.

Leftenant Hopper had been trying, without much success, to get some sleep. In desperation, he had gone so far as to take the tank driver’s seat while that soldier, Pvt. Kyle, took his four hour turn on night watch in the gunner’s far less comfortable position. The night was cool and there was very little moonlight, so the rabbit had left the driver’s hatch part way open.

“I’m telling you, he’ll be okay with it,” someone, probably Cpl. Jenner from third platoon, said.

“And I’m telling you to wait for-“ Morgan replied, as Leftenant Hopper moved the hatch the rest of the way and stuck his head out of the driver’s compartment.

“Who will be fine with what, exactly?” The expressions on Morgan's and Jenner’s faces would have been funny under other circumstances. “And who, exactly, is this?” The leftenant asked, turning his ears and his muzzle to the left toward the weasel in odd grey coveralls.

“Well sir, this-“ Morgan began, but was interrupted.

“Is a prisoner of war,” Delrio said, coming in out of the darkness from Hopper's right.

“Prisoner? That’s what you were talking about?” Hopper asked, turning back to Morgan and Jenner.

“You don’t have to do what he says, you know,” the weasel said. Later, Hopper would remember the various reactions from the mammals under his command. Fear from Jenner, annoyance from Morgan, and anger from Delrio.

The sergeant put his paw on his pistol, and then grabbed the weasel. 

“No, sergeant, don’t shoot him. He’s a prisoner, right? We do need to notify battalion however,” the rabbit said. He continued when Delrio seemed reluctant. "Unless you plan to just tie him to a tree?"

For his part, the weasel looked smug. As if he had a secret.

“Anything more to add?” Hopper asked him, and then deliberately failed to notice Delrio’s ears go back, very briefly. ‘What does he not want me to hear?’

“This play acting will be over very soon. My comrades and I will assist our predatory brothers and sisters in throwing off the prey yoke,” the weasel said. 

“I was expecting name, rank, and service number, but okay, if you want to talk. How did you get so close?” The rabbit asked.

The weasel looked quickly at Delrio, and said, “your otter buddy here has been telling me all about your security. Getting in was easy.”

“Getting out won't be,” the leftenant replied, ignoring the enemy’s feeble attempt to cast doubt on Delrio’s loyalty. Then he heard the otter’s heart rate and saw the look on his face.

“Sergeant?” And Hopper asked, surprised. 

“Sir, I think we need to pay attention to what Squad Leader Johnson has to say,” the otter said. "And I don't think we need to be calling the military police." 

‘So that’s his name,’ Hopper realized. ‘The name of the prisoner.’

“Sir?” Jenner said now, and gestured. There was a wheeled vehicle approaching from the rear. Hopper had heard it, but had been too focused on Delrio to pay it much attention.

The vehicle stopped, and two zebras with night vision gear got out. They looked around, saw the gathered mammals uphill behind one of the tanks, and started toward them.

“Military police, sir. I’m not sure who called them,” Delrio said, but he didn’t say it very loud. “Probably someone from third platoon.”

The unarmed weasel turned toward them, and snarled. Hopper realized, too late, that he had not actually checked to see, or even ask, if the weasel was armed. 

“What do we have here?” One of the zebras asked, when they were close enough. They had their hand weapons slung across their chests for easier access. 

“I am Leftenant Hopper. Fourth Platoon,” rabbit said before he thought about it. “That is-“

One of the zebras interrupted him. “Yes, yes, these are your mammals. We understand. And this?” The zebra gestured with a hoof toward the weasel.

“Prisoner,” Delrio said, without emotion. “Our prisoner.”

“Was your prisoner. Has it said anything?”

“He,” Hopper began, and then had to start over when he noticed Delrio’s and Morgan’s heart rates change. “Said something about predators not obeying prey. The Confederates were going to win. That sort of garbage. Nothing unusual.” Hopper deliberately failed to mention the name of the prisoner or how he knew what it was.

“Well. We can’t have that,” the larger zebra said. "Shoot it." 

“Sir?” Hopper said. But he realized he didn’t know what rank the zebras held. He didn’t even know their names.

“Shoot. It.” The other zebra said, slowly and deliberately, as if speaking to a child.

“No. And you two haven’t identified yourselves. For all I know-“

“Fine. I’ll do it myself,” the larger zebra said. He pointed his machine pistol at the weasel, and then put a burst of machine gun fire into him from three feet away. “See? Nothing to it.”

“You shot him? He was a prisoner of war. A mammal with rights!” Hopper said. He realized, distantly, that he was shouting. Some of the other mammals from Gator Company were reacting, but few seemed to know where the shots had come from. 

“And I am a colonel in the military police. And you have questioned my authority and disobeyed an order. In the presence of the enemy. You’re under arrest,” the smaller zebra said.

No one in Hopper's platoon was armed at the moment, except the night watch mammals, and many of them had been "buttoned up" inside the tanks, and so they hadn't heard anything. The nearest watch mammal, Private Kyle, inside the nearest tank, might not even have heard the shots. 

“Right. Get back to your vehicles. Let your captain know what happened and why,” the unidentified zebra said to Delrio and the other predators that had gathered around, and then the smaller zebra shoved Hopper into the back of their vehicle. The larger one grabbed the body of the weasel, possibly to conceal the evidence of murder, or possibly to see what might be learned from examing the body, and tossed it into the back of their vehicle. 

“Shit,” Delrio said, watching the zebras drive away. 

“Well, I guess that solves the 'what do we tell the leftenant?' problem,” Morgan said. Delrio nodded, reluctantly.

"We need to send a message."


	3. The View from the other side of the Valley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The situation as seen from the soldiers of the Carnivore Confederation. They've been waiting for word from their scout, not knowing that the zebras shot him.

Centurion Wolfson liked to think of himself as a military genius. He had heard that at least some of his soldiers didn’t agree, but he hoped that these malcontents were few and far between. If he was a genius, most of them would survive; and if he was not, well, he would just get them all killed. 'That would shut them up at least,' he thought. 

“Are we ready?” He asked his assembled section leaders.

There was a pause, and then one of them, a cheetah optio named Darwin, spoke. “Sir. This is very odd. Just charge straight in, spread out, and then accept surrender? How do we know there is no second line over that ridge waiting for us to-“

“Just do it,” he replied. He had been briefed by one of the field marshal’s aides, and then told the penalty for sharing that piece of information. The Marshall did not want word of the Confederates’ help to spread. The idea was that the Dystopian predators had spontaneously, and without urging from outside, decided to stop fighting and then, later, they’ll also decide to use their tanks to shoot at the mammals still loyal to Zystopia. Wolfson didn’t think anyone would believe that, or not for very long, but he also didn’t believe a mere centurion was really qualified to critique such a decision.

The other optios looked uncertain as well, so Wolfson went back over the plan. ”Charge when I tell you. The enemy may not fire. If they don’t shoot, we don’t shoot. If they shoot at you, you may dodge, but you will not stop to return fire. When, not if, when we reach the Zystopian lines, spread out and go to ground.”

“Darwin, you keep your mobile infantry close, but you’ll put one soldier on, that’s on top of, each Zystopian tank. Probably the engine deck, behind the turrets. I expect they will surrender, but who knows what their prey officers will do after we get too close for them to fight?”

“OK. Are we ready to kick some ass?” The centurion concluded. 

“Sir!” The group leaders said with more evident enthusiasm. They put their right paws to the left breasts of their torso armors, and then they left to rejoin their soldiers at Wolfson’s nod.

“Gods, I hope this works,” he prayed, fervently.

His mammals thought that he would give the signal to move at dawn, but Wolfson actually wanted to move sooner. Johnson’s instructions had included the phrase ‘as soon as possible’, but it was always possible-

“Sir. Burst message on secure frequency seven. David. Bathsheba. Uriah.” His radio mammal reported, at 0248 hrs.

“Acknowledge receipt,” Wolfson ordered, and then tried to remember what, exactly that meant.

‘Well, at least we know it worked. There is no way the Zystopians know those codewords! David means Johnson is not under duress. Bathsheba. Okay to attack immediately. But Uriah means there was a complication. What complication? There are codewords for specific situations, and he chose the most general one? That’s not very helpful!’ He thought. 

“Communications. Inform all units, this detachment, to move out. Immediately!”

“Yes sir.”

The signal went out, and the Confederation striders started rising and moving. The nearby powered armor soldiers, all cats in this group, also got up and started moving, but they weren’t pushing very hard. They could easily take to the air in bounding leaks, and reach the far ridgeline in half the time, but they were obviously not as confident as they should have been.

‘Darwin and I will need to discuss that later,’ Wolfson thought, and then he concentrated on his more immediate tasks. He was mounted in a command Strider, which looked exactly like the fighting machines, but lacked the ammunition storage of one of those. His own mount had extra communications, and all centurions had strict orders to guide and direct, not shoot and kill, during a battle. Shooting and killing was what the soldiers were for, not the officers. 

His strider left the concealing tree line after two or three other striders, all headed straight for the hostile ridge on the far side of the valley. They couldn’t see the Zystopian tanks, but Wolfson knew the enemy was up there. The scouts that seen them arriving before Wolfson's century was close enough to engage, and even now, the various sensors in his machine were sounding off.

There was a great deal of metal on that ridge, and background temperature was above normal, especially for this time in the morning. Also, there was a great deal more respiration gases than there should be for an unoccupied ridgeline. Not much combustion gases, so the enemy tanks weren’t running their engines, but there were definitely mammals still up there. 

“Darwin! Faster!” He ordered, and several armored cheetahs leapt into the air. Gunfire did not erupt from the enemy, and the closer, and higher, vantage points of the cheetahs gave his own computers more and better information to draw a more complete picture. The scouts had reported an entire armored company on the ridge, which was similar in size to his own century. Wolfson briefly wondered why the enemy company was deployed that way, with no reserve platoons behind the lines to deal with striders that broke through, but he tried to put that thought out of his mind. Maybe they were changing tactics to cut down on the inevitable fratricide kills when a main gun fired from the second line missed a strider and hit a tank? Maybe they really were as short handed as headquarters thought?

Closer. Closer.

Now he could see individual, unarmored mammals. Several were standing on Dystopian tanks with obviously empty paws.

“All units. Do not fire unless fired upon! Infantry, remember your instructions!”

There was a flash and then a sound from the right side of the tree line ahead, and several of his striders paused, briefly. This was exactly the wrong thing to do!

“No! Don’t stop! Forward! We’ll take them from behind if they’re shooting at us!” Wolfson said into the radio. “Like we’ll take their wives!” His next thought was ‘why the seven Hells did I tell them that?’

His century reached the ridgeline, and started spreading out and taking cover. The infantry was already in place, at least one on each tank.

“Sir, this is Darwin. One of them tanks went boom. Has to have been fratricide.”

“Acknowledged. Find their commander, or at least whoever’s in charge at the moment. Probably gonna be somebody with sharp teeth,” Wolfson replied. He stopped his own strider just short of the ridge. He didn't need to be on top of it to see everything, and he could see that that the attack had been entirely successful. 

The radio clicked to acknowledge and Wolfson sent the ‘assault successful’ code to cohort headquarters. They acknowledged and told him to hold in place and expect reinforcements. 

“It worked!” He said, forgetting that he was still broadcasting to the entire century. If they noticed the surprise and relief in his voice, they gave no indication.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The soldiers belong to the city of Cassandra, and they serve under an officer originally from Nova.


	4. Capture, Consultation, and Beginning of Exploitation of Advantage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The predators of two armies meet, make plans, and then start to expand the hole in the Zystopian line.

“Okay, everyone. Stay frosty. No itchy trigger fingers. It will all be over soon,” Sgt. Delrio said into his microphone. He was wearing his vehicle crew mammal helmet, and it allowed him to talk to everyone. Everyone with a helmet like his, and on same side, anyway. Yesterday, that would have been all Zystopians. Today it was everyone with a helmet like his, and tuned into the same frequency. 

The approaching war machines were definitely not on his side. They looked vaguely alive, sort of like parents and children, and the larger ones even tended to move in mutually supporting pairs. The smaller ones tended to act like children and moved in no particular pattern, rushing ahead of their larger elders. As they got closer, their size became more obvious and Delrio saw the parents as the giants they were. 

Delrio suddenly found himself face-to-face, or muzzle to face shield, with one of the smaller ones. One moment, the otter was alone on his tank; the next moment, he was sharing the space with what could only be an armored cheetah standing next to the tank. 

“You in charge?” The visitor asked, and put an armored paw on the side of the vehicle. The gesture appeared to be somewhat proprietary. 

“I am. My name is Delrio. Fang Delrio. These,” the otter gestured around him with his left paw, “are my mammals.” Then he pointed at a group of three prey mammals nearby with his right paw. “And these are my prisoners. Formerly leftenants in the Army of Zystopia.”

“Formerly? Very well, fang,” the cheetah replied. He did not identify himself, but he was obviously communicating with someone by radio or communications laser because one of the larger bipedal machines stopped in front of his tank, but not far away. Another mammal, this one of wolf, opened an access hatch, stuck his head out, looked at the otter, and waited. 

“Centurion wants to meet ya,” the cheetah said, gesturing.

“Right,” del Rio replied, climbed off his tank, and walked over to the other machine. The otter was a little surprised that he was not relieved of his helmet, but then he realized they probably wanted all the Zystopians to hear the conversation. Simpler that way.

An hour later, Delrio was back in his tank, and moving behind Zystopian lines toward one of the other Third Battalion tank companies. He had half the company with him. The other tanks, eight in that group, had moved out earlier to meet the other company in Third Battalion, and either accept or compel their surrender. 

All tanks of G company had four mammal crews, but now one member of each crew was a Confederate. Centurion Wolfson had explained, carefully, to Delrio that this was not a sign of mistrust. Rather, it was more like a show of unity. Confederates and former Zystopians going into battle as predatory allies; or that kind of thing. Delrio didn’t believe that, but he didn’t think it really mattered either. His part in this war was nearly over. 

“Do you know where they are?” Delrio’s Confederate ally asked. His manner was not exactly hostile, but it wasn’t very trusting either. He could certainly smell Delrio’s annoyance in the close confines of the tank, just as Dell could smell the Confederate’s distrust.

“No,” the otter admitted over the intercom. “Nobody told us where the other companies were located. We’re just grunts. My leftenant probably knows, but they arrested him when he refused to kill your guy.

The Confederate bobcat nodded, so the Zystopian otter continued.

“We’re heading for the most likely location of one of the other companies. H company, by the way. They’re almost certainly dug in around the next chokepoint south of where we were, which is the town of St. Vith." 

“They probably aren’t all in the town,” the bobcat said. “The tanks will be inside houses, barns or garages, and that sort of thing, along the east side of town so they can react more quickly to incoming threats from that direction. The crew mammals, or most of them, are probably asleep in town, or up high in church steeples keeping an eye toward the east. There won’t be any lights on, so we’ll be able to get close before they see anything.”

“Halt!” A soldier shouted from the middle the road ahead.

“Stop,” Delrio said into the radio microphone attached to his helmet, and the column of tanks stopped in place. “Looks like we made contact. Make sure the Optio knows we’re here.”

It was a zebra in the middle of the road waving a flashlight. There was a vehicle nearby and probably another zebra inside. The one with a flashlight was armed only with a pistol, so Delrio was not worried about winning any fire fight. He was concerned about making enough noise to warn the enemy too soon.

The zebra activated his radio on the Zystopian Third Battalion frequency. “Identify yourselves! What are you doing here?” He had come closer to the lead tank with Delrio. 

He sounded puzzled, not really suspicious or afraid. When confronted by a column of tanks from what could only be your own army, and you have only a pistol, you have to assume everything is okay. If not, you have to run away in terror, and this zebra was trying to play it cool.

“We’re your reinforcements,” Delrio shouted down toward the zebra. Then he repeated the same thing on the H company frequency in order to use up more time. He didn’t want to use Third Battalion frequency because he didn’t want to risk them to finding what was happening. Not yet anyway. 

The other zebra motioned to the one with the flashlight, and then the radio spoke again. “I can see by your markings that you’re G Company. So, what are you doing here?” This time it was on H company frequency.

“We’re here to help. Some local militia replaced us on the line, and then we lost contact with the battalion, so, here we are.” 

In the dark, unnoticed, the armored cheetahs of Optio Darwin’s unit had jumped off their tanks and filtered into the town. 

It was not yet dawn, so the Zistopian tank company in that town would not yet be fully awake. Their tanks would have, at most, one or two mammals, predators, on night watch, and the officers would probably not be very close to their soldiers. Those soldiers did not feel much loyalty to their officers, anyway, and would almost certainly surrender if given the chance.

“Nobody told us about that,” the zebra replied.

Delrio knew this zebra’s buddy in the jeep was relaying the information to Third Battalion because he could hear it on his own radio, but he thought a garbled story about some tanks getting lost in the dark was better than simply shooting these traffic control soldiers. Even if the traffic soldiers were prey, and in a unit that also took care of what they called ‘field discipline.’ Discipline like arresting Leftenant Hopper for being a good mammal instead of a monster. But these two had not been part of that.

The sun was starting to come up as Delrio and the zebra talked. Finally there was enough light for the equines to see the armored cheetahs behind them, but the zebras refused to surrender. Delrio didn’t know if they were too stupid or too surprised, but it didn't really matter. The one in the road tried to draw his pistol, and the other one tried to hide, so Optio Darwin tackled the one in the road, and then used his mechanical arms to yank the other one out of the jeep and toss him. Then he waved to Delrio.

“Got some more tanks for you,” the cheetah said.


	5. Watching the world end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rabbit leftenant, or former leftenant, has a front row seat to see the end of his former life.

James Hopper, formerly Leftenant Hopper, Army of Zystopia, was spending the morning under a tree near the edge of the Seventh Tank Regimental Command area. The setting was not ideal for several reasons. First, the paw cuffs that connected him to the tree didn’t allow him much freedom of movement. Second, the pain collar around his neck, currently turned off, identified him to anyone looking that he was one of “them”. Third, the complete lack of adequate sanitation facilities for his use, and his apparently total invisibility as far as his former friends and coworkers were concerned. It was as if treason, or the punishment for it anyway, was contagious, and they didn’t want to catch it. 

He had spent the remainder of the night, after arrival here, in a kind of daze, broken only when he started getting hungry around sun up. He was, of course, ignored when he asked for food. With nothing better to do, he had settled down to try to sleep.

The rabbit had discovered the problem with sanitation when he asked, and then begged, to be taken somewhere to relieve himself, but he had instead been hit in the head by another zebra. When he woke up, he had scratched a hole near the tree, used that, and then covered it up. He had to ignore the mammals working not more than ten meters away. 

He knew the zebras planned to leave him here, chained to this tree, after the regiment left. They had said as much. They might give him a ration, but they might not. Or they might give him something in a can and then not give him a can opener.

He wondered about his current status in Gator Company. Did they think Leftenant Hopper was a deserter? 

Around noon, he became aware of auto cannon fire. At first, he was surprised that he could not recognize it, because he had heard gunfire many times in training. Then he realized what it had to be. The sounds were faint at first, and only audible to him, and possibly to a few other mammals with exceptional hearing. A leftenant in the Army of Zystopia would normally have informed the nearest superior about the noise. But he was no longer a leftenant, and he was attached to a tree, so he didn’t know what to do. 

The sounds were faint, at first, but then they started getting closer, and Hopper started hearing the sounds of individual projectiles striking trees nearby and some rounds passing over the command area. He knew what that meant.

The regimental command area had no fighting vehicles that Hopper could see. All the reserves were already committed, and so any enemy with vehicle mounted weapons would easily be able to destroy everything here. That would include all the vehicles, supplies, personnel, communications equipment, and one James Hopper.

Eventually, the mammals around him realized what was going on and then they started packing up to move. Hopper knew it was too late when he saw his first Confederate strider. He had expected artillery fire, and deeply regretted not digging a hole. 

He found himself fascinated. He always wanted to see an enemy war machine in action; preferably through a gun sight. Now he had a kind of ringside seat, and he felt like he was actually watching a documentary instead of participating in one. 

The first strider, and all the others, were bipedal, and about three or four meters tall. There was some sort of weapon on the back that was, apparently, meant to be used from a prone position because it pointed up when the machine was in motion. Hopper knew what it was from briefings and what it did from direct observation. The machine went down to its knees and then one limb and then its belly. One arm went back and stabilized the barrel of the weapon now pointed forward instead of up. And then it started putting shots into the far tree line. If there was return fire, Hopper couldn’t tell, as several more machines joined the first one on the ground. 

Other machines started to arrive. Most of them were smaller than the first one, and Hopper realized they were actually large predators, probably lions and tigers, wearing some sort of powered armor. These smaller ones moved through the command area in a line, as if doing what Hopper’s mammals would have referred to as “policing the area”, but Hopper’s mammals would have been looking for trash on the ground, and not fellow mammals wearing the wrong uniform. 

Large tracers walked across the headquarters area to Hopper’s left, and then into one of the command vehicles, which exploded. Mammals, predator and prey, were running in every direction. Some did not run, but crawled, or tried not to move. Many could not move. The noise reminded Hopper of a training exercise, but there would be no umpires and no after action review this time.

Hopper noticed the Confederates didn’t shoot, or in some cases, club, everyone. Prey usually died, but most of the predators were only disarmed if they didn't resist. Also, the older prey, who were, correctly, assumed to be senior officers, mostly survived. These were bound with plastic ties when caught. The prey that didn’t surrender were shot, and he didn’t see many escape.

Then Hopper realized that one of the Confederates had seen him. The rabbit had been crouched down, trying to hide, because he had no weapon or armor. Now he stood up as the shooting nearby paused briefly, and a Confederation strider stopped a few meters away. 

‘Probably reporting in’, he thought, ‘but why haven’t they shot me? Maybe because I’m chained to a tree? That probably makes them at least interested in hearing my story.’

The destruction of the headquarters area continued another half hour, and then the larger machines left. Hopper felt nothing. Not relief. He was just a spectator. The Zistopian soldiers in the area were dead, wounded, or disarmed, and there were very few survivors that were prey. There were many Zistopian predators around, now, and they were no longer under control.

‘What will they do?’ Hopper wondered.

The answer seemed to be ‘not much.’ Mostly they just milled around. They had been conditioned to obey, and now no one was telling them what to do. They stood where they were, or they found somewhere to sit. 

Later, infantry arrived and started getting things in order. They were predators, but the uniforms and gear were Confederation.

Two of them stopped near Hopper's tree and had a short conversation. 

“What about this one?” One said. To Hopper, it sounded like 'Wa bout tis un?' His mind automattically translated. 

“Leave him,” was the answer. 

“No. That’s an officer. Rabbit, see?”

“Tied to a tree? With a collar?”

“Sure. He must’ve pissed somebody off. Maybe he banged the general’s daughter?”

Hopper just stared, as the two tigers finally stopped debating. 

“Okay. Bring him, but leave the cuffs on. Orders are to collect prisoners if convenient, and this one is more valuable, being an officer. Put him in the transport.”


	6. To the Victor Belong the Spoils of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Occupation of the City of Zystopia. The Confederation Army and captured, or deserted, portions of the Zystopian Army, enter the city.

Zystopia is not, technically, a walled city. The various climate control structures between habitats look similar to castle walls, but they are actually just large weather insulators. These structures could be defended by a small number of friendly soldiers, if there were any. However, if there were, Field Marshal Reynard would have sent his own soldiers through the transportation holes in the walls because the plan had never anticipated a siege. 

The Confederation Army entered the city precisely at noon through all Eastern wall openings simultaneously. The other entrances / exits, on the other side of the city, were blocked by armored vehicles to prevent the departure of refugees. There were many mammals, considered responsible for the current state of the city, that might have tried to escape, had this not been done. 

Major roadways were cleared of civilian transport, in some cases by simply pushing cars and trucks out of the way, and then the same streets were filled with soldiers, tanks, striders, and other military vehicles. These were a show of force, a demonstration to all citizens that Zystopia has lost the war. The tanks, with mostly former Zystopian crews, and the new grey colors of the Confereration, headed for armories and motor pools. The other vehicles, with armored escorts, went to various control nodes, and never in numbers less than four. 

Food storage, climate control, water purification, radio and television stations, and government buildings all received attention. A dozen grey war machines visited the former mayor’s mansion, and there was another dozen at the ZPD headquarters across the square. 

Within two hours after noon, the city was full of grey clad troops and grey war machines. Most of their interactions with the Zystopians were peaceful, after the Zystopian prey realized that these armed, foreign, predator, soldiers were not here to kill anyone. In the manner of soldiers everywhere, they looked like they’d done this sort of waiting thing before, and would do it again as often as necessary. Mostly they stood around, and sometimes they interacted with local citizens. 

“Hey, you!” One of the Confederation wolves at the intersection of 7th and Main shouted at a deer working in a nearby, and very solitary, food truck. It was around 5 PM. 

“Me?” The deer replied, frantically looking around, and hoping that someone else was the center of attention. His customers had all moved back far enough to run if something bad happened, but they were still near enough to see if whatever happened was exciting or interesting. The grey uniformed wolves reminded the deer of some gang members he’d seen previously, but no gang was ever this heavily armed. 

“No, the other buck in the food truck next to yours!” The wolf replied, sarcastically. The deer couldn’t see the wolf’s ears because of the helmets they all wore, but the deer thought the ears had gone back. There were certainly a great many teeth visible as the wolf came closer. He was followed by two more wolves, and they had their paws on their weapons. The guns were not pointed at anything. It was as if they had forgotten they had them. 

“Umm. May I help you gentle mammals?” The deer asked, attempting to treat this as just another customer request on any normal day.

“Give us… one of each of those… Umm, whatever those are,” the wolf replied, gesturing at the pictures on the sign. 

'Can he not read?' the deer wondered, but he said, “OK. Let me ring this up. Are you paying with cash or... Ummm" Then he froze. The wolf just looked at him, curious, and shook his head. 

“Damn. No local money, of course. All I have is Novan script. What’s the exchange rate, anyway?” He said to one of his comrades. That wolf, of course, only shrugged. “I guess it don’t matter. Zystopian money won’t be worth crap tomorrow, so how about you take our money one for one, right?”

“OK,” the deer replied, glad to find out that he was going to be getting any money at all. 

However, not all the interactions ended peacefully. 

“Right. Keep your paws off the triggers. Weapons on safe.” Centurion Wolfson said, for perhaps the third or fourth time today. “The city, its buildings, and all these taxpayers standing around, belong to the Confederation, now.”

Various acknowledgments came over the radio, and several of the armored infantry mammals waved, or saluted, somewhat languidly. His cat soldiers were bored, but the centurion knew that was better than overly excited in the present circumstances.

There was very little about the current duty to cause excitement right now. The ZPD headquarters, and the buildings nearby, had been stormed an hour ago by special shock troops backed up by striders, but those striders had left and been replaced by Centurion Wolfson’s unit. The buildings’ occupants, apparently consisting entirely of out of shape prey, had surrendered more or less immediately and most of them were still on-site, in a bus waiting for final determination of destination. One of the buildings next to the ZPD HQ was being secured and searched by the company of Novan wolves in unpowered armor. 

‘Secured,’ Wolfson thought. ‘We used to call this sort of thing looting, but whatever-‘

His thoughts were interrupted by his radio. “Victor one echo, this is zulu seven. We’re coming out and we need medical teams.”

Wolfson heard the odd way the words sounded, and responded immediately, watching some of the nearby feline soldiers and stryders reorient toward the building. “This is Victor one actual. Have you encountered resistance?”

“Negative, sir. Got some former guests of the previous administration. Found them in the lowest level cellar. Only accessible through the back of the building, unless you blow a hole in a wall, like we did. We’ll need some stretchers and body bags," Zulu Seven said. "But at least some of them can still walk.”

Wolfson made the necessary radio calls and then reminded his own soldiers to keep their eyes on the perimeter. 

‘However, as the commander it’s my job to keep an eye on threats from any direction, including inside the perimeter,’ Wolfson thought, conscientiously. 

He had a different emotion when he saw the walking wounded mammals coming out in borrowed jackets, following by body after body on stretchers. Most of the stretchers were covered with one thing or another, and so they looked like they could be small predatory, or prey, mammals, like otters, squirrels, or ferrets, even though all the walking mammals were big cats of both genders. That one, and… that one, on that stretcher, however, were…. He looked quickly away, and found himself staring at the bus with the prisoners. Using his targeting scope, he zoomed in and got a good look at their faces. Their happy faces, and their pointing arms. As if they were proud. 

His targeting system was already live with the optical scopes, but the guns had been on safe. A flick of a paw changed that. He knew he didn’t have as much ammunition as a regular war machine, but he had enough for-

And then the bus started shaking and coming apart as it took hundreds of small machine gun, and large caliber autocannon, rounds in a few seconds from at least two of the mechs under his direct command. Not his own war machine, but that wouldn't matter. These machines were controlled by mammals whose actions, or crimes, were his responsibility. 

“Cease Fire!” The centurion shouted into the radio, shocked out of his own bloody-minded thoughts. ‘Won’t save anyone on the bus, anyway,’ but he had to get things back under some sort of control before he reported in and then surrendered to the military police.


	7. Judgement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fates of the rabbit leftenant and the wolf centurion? The rabbit is a prisoner of war, but the wolf is an officer in their own army. The trials are both held by a trio of Confederation officers, and so both could logically be done in the same room, possibly one and then the other.

“The prisoner will state his name, rank, and ID number for the record,” the senior of the three predator officers said. They were all soldiers of the Confederation, and they were here to pass judgement. They were a fang, an over centurion, and a centurion 

“Hopper, James H. Formerly leftenant in the Army of Zystopia, on loan from the protectorate of Bunny Borough. B51 – 301 – 255,” the rabbit replied. He kept his ears up and his back straight. He could hear the judges breathing.

A quote from a former instructor came to his mind. Hopper had asked why the losing army, after some battle or other, had been executed. ‘This was defeat, cadet. Do try to avoid it.’

“We have your written report, but we wish to hear your words also. Tell us what happened.” 

“Sir. I woke up around midnight when I heard some of my mammals talking. I questioned them, and was introduced to a mammal they called a prisoner. This was Squad Leader Johnson, and I later realized that he was no prisoner, but rather a liaison between my Zystopian troops and the soldiers of the Confederation.”

“You wrote that you were ordered to shoot the squad leader, but you refused. Why did you refuse?” One of the centurions asked. She was some sort of feline, possibly a panther, but not a large one. The three judges sat behind a podium, so the rabbit could see only their heads.

“Yes ma’am. I refused because it would have been wrong. Prisoners, which was how I thought of the mammal, have rights, such as the right not to be shot when not armed. The zebra that identified himself as an internal security colonel shot the squad leader, and said something like, ‘that’s how you do it,’” the rabbit said. He was still at attention, and he was trying not to sweat too much. He knew the cats could smell him. 

“You’re not sure what the zebra said?” The other centurion, a lion, asked.

“No sir.”

“What happened next?”

“I was arrested and taken back to the Seventh Regimental command area. There, I was handcuffed to a tree, and captured by Confederation troops some hours later.”

“Yes, yes. We have all that information,” the fang said, before looking, briefly at the other two officers. He was a weasel, but he didn’t act like any weasel Hopper had ever seen. He acted almost like an otter, perhaps, or some other mammal. To Hopper, the weasel seemed more like Delrio, his former sergeant in G company of the Seventh Regiment. 

“Before we pass judgment, we will give you some of the information we have, information provided to this court by Fang Delrio and the other members of your unit. Their accounts agree with yours in nearly every way, and Delrio, at least, informed the court that he thought you were a fine officer, even if a little young and inexperienced. He recommended a full pardon and transfer to the new Army of Zystopia at the rank of captain,” the weasel said. He didn’t mention the political benefits involved with pardoning a rabbit at this time, and he didn’t give any indication that he had been ordered to assist in locating qualified officers to prepare Zystopia for the coming war with the Union. 

“Sir?” The rabbit asked, confused. “Delrio was a colonel?”

“He is a fang, and you’ll be meeting him again later today. Be sure to show the proper respect for his superior rank. It is the decision of this court that you are not at fault in the matter of the murder of Squad Leader Johnson. That you treated your predator soldiers with the proper respect, just as you would with any other mammals. That you are, in fact, the ‘fine officer,’ that Fang Delrio described.”

“Thank you, sir,” the rabbit replied. He was still confused, but now also relieved. 'He's not a sergeant?'

“Don’t thank us yet. You have a big job ahead of you. We expect you to make loyal soldiers out of former Zystopian soldiers, citizens, and a few others, in a week. Maybe two.”

“A week?” The rabbit squeaked. His ears, which had been high, now fell down his back, and his confidence evaporated. 

“Never mind. My little joke. Maybe not so funny? Go, leave us before I try to be funny again.”

“Thank you, sir,” the rabbit said. He saluted, executed a perfect about-face, and then marched out. The doors were held open by the guards until he passed, and then the doors were shut. 

“Who’s next?“ Hopper heard just before the door shut behind him. “Guards? Prepare the room for our next guest.”

***************************

“Ready? Let’s get this over with,” the senior officer of the court, a weasel fang named Sinistro, said. “Bring him in.”

The doors opened again, and an adult, male wolf marched in. His muzzle was level, ears up, and eyes straight ahead. He looked neither left nor right, up nor down. 

Fang Sinestro, and the other two officers of the court, waited until the wolf stopped in front of the wolf’s ceremonial sword, and then they waited for the wolf to look down at it. If the hilt was toward him, he would be free to pick up the weapon and then continue to do his duty as he saw fit. If the blade was toward him, he would be guilty of treason and that crime could have only one consequence. 

Finally, the centurion looked down, saw the nearby hilt of his ceremonial weapon, and sagged, slightly. He also put his hand, briefly, on that hilt for reassurance, but then caught himself and returned his hand to his side. 

“Centurion Wolfson. The members of this tribunal have interviewed, and heard testimony from, everyone involved. This court has determined that you were not at fault. That you did everything in your power to prevent the accident. That the extraordinary events drove some of your mammals to disobey your repeated instructions. That the accident was, in fact, inevitable when your mammals saw the evidence related to the way the former prisoners, both children and adults, had been abused.

“You will take your weapon, you will go from here, and you will rejoin your soldiers. The sergeant outside has the information you need. Be advised that your legion commander has been informed of the outcome of this trial,” the weasel concluded. “I’m sure he will have words for you also.

"This court is adjourned,” the fang said. “For the glory of Mustella, Cassandra, Nova, and the Confederation.”

“Glory,” Wolfson replied, automatically, playing his part in the ritual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mustella, Cassandra, and Nova are all city states similar to Zystopia, but these make up the Confederation, which is more predator heavy, and is located to the east of Zystopia. The Union, located to the west of Zystopia, is made up of several other city states, but these are prey heavy. The war that started on Z Day happened because the Confederation felt that the Union had gained too much control of Zystopia, which had been supposed to be neutral, and because predators were being killed.


	8. Rabbit and Otter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, you found out during your court martial that your former best friend actually outranks you by about three levels and you thought you outranked him by one level. What do you do?

“At ease, Captain. I understand you’ve been looking for me?”

“Yes sir. I mean I didn’t know-“

“Yes yes. Tell you what. If you’re free at 1700?” The otter asked and the rabbit nodded. “Meet me at the Officer’s club?”

“Yes sir,” the captain replied.

“That’s not an order. Just a suggestion,” the fang replied. 

The rabbit saluted anyway, so the otter nodded and turned away.

The O, or Officer’s, club resembled a more or less typical bar in Zystopia, except that all of the patrons here were officer rank soldiers. They were mostly predators now, but there were some prey, like Hopper. Word had gotten around that not all prey officers were bad. Hopper, for example, was known to be one of the good ones, and therefore tolerated in a place where other prey mammals might simply be thrown out. Buffaloes, especially, were not very popular. 

The officer corps of the new Zystopian Army was still a small community. They all knew each other. Fang Delrio, for example, was well-known and anyone with him would automatically have a certain level of respect, even if that officer was not as well-known. 

Captain James Hopper had not known what to expect when he arrived, just before 5 PM. He had never actually visited the officers club because he was too busy learning his new roles, first as platoon, and then, as company, commander. He had been determined to get it right, and had had no time for much of anything else as a result. 

‘It’s not too bad,’ he thought, looking around and listening. ‘Not too loud and they don’t seem to have a problem with alternatives to the usual relationships.’

There were many couples. Some at the bar sitting next to each other and some in booths. Most of them were in uniform, like Hopper, but not all. Some mammals, of both genders, were clearly companions brought by the officer with them. Some couples were both officers, and not all of them were male-female, or the same species, for that matter. Many of them were more or less ignoring the rules against public displays of affection, but they were all still completely in uniform. 

‘That panther and that mouse? I guess they’re just friends,’ Hopper thought. ‘Anyway, how would they...? No matter.’

Hopper saw Delrio in a booth by the wall and walked over. “Good afternoon sir,” he greeted. Being indoors, he did not salute. The otter already had something alcoholic on his side of the table. 

“Huh. And good afternoon to you. James,” Delrio replied, emphasizing the name. “Let’s try to keep this informal, okay? You and I have known each other a long time.”

“Yes, well, kind of,” the rabbit replied, sitting down after pausing briefly for some sort of permission signal from the otter. A signal that the rabbit didn’t get. “But I wanted to apologize-“

“Don’t worry about it.”

A bobcat waitress ambled over, a took Hopper's drink order, and then left. She used her tail to brush against the otter as she turned. 

“Service is good,” Hopper said, watching his friend, maybe his friend, leering at the waitress as she walked away. ‘My friend the fang,’ he thought, still somewhat confused.

The otter noticed the rabbit’s discomfort, but chose to deliberately misunderstand it. “A guy has to keep his options open. I’m not really attracted to felines. Or not the way I like female otters! But there is no harm in looking, and I have been trapped here as a second-class citizen for a very long time.”

Again the rabbit's ears dropped back down, and he looked uncomfortable, and again the otter saw, but ignored the reaction.

“You like the bucks, don’t you? See anything you like?” Delrio asked instead.

“Any thing?” The rabbit replied, emphasizing the second word. 

“They are all pink on the inside, James,” the otter replied, deliberately needling the rabbit.

“Not looking for love I take it?” the rabbit replied. He was trying, and failing, to conceal the blush in his ears. Also, he knew the otter could smell the reaction. 

“Love? Not really. I had been planning to find a wife, or at least a long term lover, when I returned home to Mustella, but I just found out that I can’t do that. Or not yet, anyway.”

Hopper had felt a slight sting at the dismissive, but very honest, way the otter spoke about living in Zystopia, but he understood why. Back home, the otter had not needed a pain collar when off-duty. And had not needed to take orders from an idiot buffalo like Bodo. Or a child, like Hopper.

“I just wanted to say,” the rabbit said, ignoring the otter’s frown, “that I’m sorry about the way you were treated. The way I treated you. Like an inferior.”

“Yes, but an inferior with a brain. You always discussed things and gave my opinions due consideration,” the otter pointed out, gesturing with his drink. 

“Due consideration? You are nearly always right. That’s why I consulted you so carefully. And why I tried to get you promoted,” Hopper said. 

“We both knew that wouldn't work! Not only am I a predator, but I’m not a megafauna,” the otter replied. The waitress returned again and food was ordered. Fish for Delrio and the expected carrots and greens for Hopper.

“Carrot munchers! That’s what they call you rabbits. So, of course you would order either carrots or salad or both." the otter observed, laughing. "I just knew it would be fun needling you…”

“So? I happen to like carrots,” the muncher replied, attempting to sound dignified. 

“You grew up on a farm?”

“Yeah. Pretty much everyone in the Commonwealth does. Most of us are farmers, but some of us don’t want to do it forever,” the rabbit replied. 

“Like Judy Hopps? The new chief of police? Speaking of…..I hear she’s available, not that you would be interested.”

“No, not my type of plumbing, but I remember hearing gossip about how idealistic she used to be. Now? I’m sure she’s much less like that,” the rabbit said. He took a drink, and continued. 

“It's a good thing she was promoted anyway, even if there were many predators that didn’t want anyone from the old ZPD, especially not anyone above sergeant rank, still in uniform and out of jail. Or still alive for that matter. However, it just doesn't look good to have have all predators in positions of power. What sort of message would that send to rabbits like me?”

“The mayor think she’s one of the good ones,” the otter agreed. 

“Where did you hear that?”

“Around,” the otter replied, waving a paw. 

“Around? What’s with this new job you got, anyway? I’m getting G company with as many of the old crew as possible for cadre. Supposed to be some upgrades to our-“

“Now now, we don’t talk about that sort of thing here. Never know who’s listening,” the otter said, and tapped his own ear.

“Oh yeah. I forgot about operational security, but you never did. Otters are supposed to be sneaky, like foxes and weasels that way.”

“I have several weasel friends, and your regimental commander, Fang Sinestro, is a weasel, as I recall. Weasels are not all bad. Especially the females! Do you know that they-“

The friends continued talking another hour and then went their separate ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fang Delrio's new job is going to be in the "Zystopia" story. He's going to be working with Colonel Francis Wilde because Marshal Reynard, and others, doesn't trust Francis Wilde as much as they did.

**Author's Note:**

> A short note about ranks. Mostly, I use what I'm familiar with from the US Army, but there are ranks like "field marshal" or "fang" [later] that may not be as clear out of context. Here is the list, from lowest to highest: 
> 
> Private / Patrol Mammal  
> Corporal / squad leader  
> Sergeant  
> Leftenant / Lieutenant / optio  
> Captain / centurian  
> Major / over centurian  
> Colonel / Fang  
> General  
> Field Marshal / Army Commander  
> Mammals on the same side will tend to have the same rank structure and all Zystopians use the same structure, but the Confederacy is a loose coalition, with many different nations and / or city states, and each one has their own rank structure. It's not a system without some friction, and there is a certain amount of officers "trading places" to promote better cooperation.  
> The Union and Confederation Armies are at war, and so officers will not be trading places. Also, the two armies have very different views related to the proper treatment of prisoners.


End file.
